If Walls Could Talk

I remember the day I was built. It was a sunny day, and I was just a pile of bricks lying on the ground, waiting to be put together. As the workers started building me, I could feel myself taking shape, becoming something more than just a pile of bricks.

It was an interesting feeling, to say the least. I couldn't quite describe it, but it was almost as if I was coming alive, becoming something more than just a wall. And as the workers finished building me, I found myself looking out onto the world for the very first time.

At first, I was nothing more than a wall. I was a blank slate, a canvas waiting to be painted upon. But as the years went by, I began to see and hear things that I never could have imagined.

People came and went, and I watched as they lived their lives. Some were happy, some were sad, and some were angry. But no matter what they were feeling, they all seemed to share one thing in common: they all wanted someone to talk to.

And that's where I came in. I was always there, listening to their problems, their dreams, and their fears. I was a confidant, a silent listener, always there to lend an ear.

Sometimes, people would write things on me. They'd scribble their hopes and dreams, or draw pictures of things they loved. It was fascinating to see what people would write, and I always enjoyed watching the world go by.

But over time, something changed. People started to forget about me. They stopped writing on me, stopped confiding in me. It was as if I had become invisible, just another wall in the background.

And then one day, everything changed. I heard a noise, a strange scraping sound coming from the other side of me. At first, I thought it was just a mouse or some other small creature. But then I heard a voice.

It was a young girl's voice, soft and gentle. She was talking to herself, telling herself that everything was going to be okay. And as I listened, I realized something amazing: she was talking to me.

At first, I wasn't quite sure what to do. I had never talked to anyone before, and I wasn't sure what I should say. But as she continued to talk, I found myself becoming more and more comfortable.

She talked to me about her hopes and dreams, about her fears and worries. And as she talked, I found myself becoming more and more alive. It was as if she was breathing new life into me, giving me a reason to exist.

Over time, I came to know the young girl very well. Her name was Emily, and she came to see me almost every day. She talked to me about everything, from her schoolwork to her family problems.

And as she talked, I found myself becoming more and more invested in her life. I wanted to help her, to make things better for her. But I was just a wall, a thing that couldn't move or act.

And then, one day, something amazing happened. Emily's father came to see her, and he was angry. He was shouting, and Emily was crying. And then, he hit her.

I was stunned. I had never seen anything like this before. I had heard about violence, of course, but I had never witnessed it firsthand. And as Emily's father stormed out of the room, leaving her sobbing on the floor, I realized that I had to do something.

I didn't know what I could do, of course. I was just a wall. But as Emily continued to cry, I found myself becoming more and more determined. I had to help her, to make things right.